


Happy Autumn-Fields

by thievinghippo



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Big Bang 2015, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 06:45:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5446994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thievinghippo/pseuds/thievinghippo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of vignettes looking at the unlikely friendship of Sera and Blackwall. A friendship neither expected, but both of them craved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Autumn-Fields

**I.**

Funny how Blackwall feels just as lonely in Haven as he did on the road.

Not that he doesn’t have people to talk to. Maker, his day is full of people _talking._ Turning volunteers into soldiers, working in the forge, trying to dodge questions from Lady Nightingale.

Being surrounded by people doesn’t keep someone from feeling alone. This is a lesson he quickly learns, thanks to always keeping himself closed off from everyone else, trying not to reveal anything about his past.

Stoic, they call him. It’s a word that would never have described Thom Rainier. That bastard always wanted to be the center of attention. Now Blackwall’s content to sit in the corner of the tavern, listening to stories instead of telling them, and appreciating women from afar, instead of trying to sit them on his knee.

Maker knows there are plenty of women in Haven to appreciate from afar.

Still, he likes it here. There's an energy Blackwall can't quite describe, and he relishes the chance to be part of something bigger than just himself and his guilt.

The tavern's almost full tonight, like it is most nights. Full of people who worked hard all day and are ready to drink a pint of ale and listen to a song to forget their worries for a while. Blackwall listens to bits and pieces of conversation, always tempted to join in, but never doing so.

That's when the elf walks in.

There's only one empty seat, the one Blackwall's staring at. With an energy Blackwall vaguely remembers from being young once himself, she bounds through the crowd of people and sits down without even asking.

Blackwall's never spoken to her before. When he first came to Haven, the lass left with the Herald for the Storm Coast almost the same day. The Herald invited him along, but the thought of going to the Coast chilled his bones, so he made excuses to stay behind instead.

The elf’s staring at him now, her head tilted, like she's sizing him up. Frankly, he doesn't like it. Makes him feel on edge, like a wild animal being hunted. His pulse speeds up and it takes all he has to keep his eyes still and not have them flick from window to window, looking for a chance to escape.

Finally, he can take no more, crossing his arms over his chest. He braces his feet on the floor, refusing to let this slip of a girl wear him down. "Do you want something?" he asks gruffly.

"Oh thank the Maker, you're not like _them."_

Whatever reaction Blackwall expected, this isn't it. He snorts, picking up his ale and taking a swallow. "Who'd want to be?" he asks, thinking of some of the company the Herald keeps, like Lady Vivienne or the nobles who drop by the training sessions and look at soldiers like they're prize cattle, instead of men and women with hopes and dreams of their own.

"Name's Sera, yeah?" she says with a laugh, before grabbing his ale right out of his hands. She takes a drink. "And you're Blackwall."

"You can call me that, if you like," he says, silently congratulating himself on not having to lie from the start.

"Permission, then. Appreciate it," Sera says. She leans in, then, like she's going to share a secret. "Did you get a peek at Flissa in that top? Tit's look _amazing_."

Blackwall grabs his drink back, taking one sip, and then placing it in front of Sera again. "If I were a man to notice that sort of thing, I might agree with you."

"Ha," Sera says, picking up the ale. "Moment I saw you, I knew we'd get along. Do you have any food?"

A smile tugs at his lips, and Blackwall decides he doesn't feel quite so alone as he did a few minutes ago.

**II.**

"Fucking cold out here," Sera complains.

Blackwall wipes the sweat from his brow as he plants his great sword into the ground. He prefers to work with a sword and shield, but the Herald wants him using a two handed weapon. The elf knows almost as much about blades as he does, so he complies to his lady's wishes.

"Maker, Sera, put on a bloody coat or something," Blackwall says. She stands on the edge of the training field, wearing nothing but those daft yellow plaid leggings of hers and an oversized red tunic. "You'll freeze."

"You're not wearing a coat," Sera says, sticking out her tongue.

"I've also been training for the last 45 minutes, sweating my balls off," Blackwall mutters, tying his hair back with a thin leather string. His shoulder lets out a protest and all he wants to do is grab a handful of snow to soothe his tired muscles. "What are you even doing here?"

Sera never trains. It's one thing they argue about. To Blackwall, keeping his skills sharp is almost a religion, and considering how it's his job to fight by the Herald's side, it probably is the most important work he does.

To Sera, it's just a waste of time, something to keep her from pulling pranks or chatting up some of the women in the area. Blackwall wants to be angry about it, but out in the field she's practically flawless. He can confidently charge ahead, sure he won't be hit with friendly fire.

"Her Heroldness wants me on the training field for an hour a day," Sera says, rolling her eyes. But then she brightened. "Never said I actually had to train, though."

Blackwall shakes his head as he picks up his training sword. They walk to the weapons rack in silence. Once his weapon is safely stowed away, he reaches for his gambeson, only to have Sera beat him to it.

"Plenty warm in this, I think," she says, putting his gambeson over her shoulders. She lowers her face to her shoulder and takes a deep breath. "Doesn't smell nearly as bad as I thought it would."

They start walking to the small cottage he shares with Dennet and Harritt. Both men will be out working, so he can get a bit of rest before going out to train another round of recruits.

He lets them both inside and Sera immediately jumps on his cot, leaning against the wall, pulling his gambeson tightly around her.

"I watched, yeah? You and Miss High and Mighty Seeker sparring," she says.

Blackwall lets out a grunt. "Was a good fight. I'll need to improve if I'm going to best her one of these days."

"Saw you rolling around with her on the ground, too."

"We were _sparring_ ," Blackwall says with a sigh. Once Sera gets things like this in her head, there’s no stopping her. Might as well let her get it out of her system.

"Sparring, eh? Seemed like you were bout ready for some mattress jigging," Sera says with a laugh, resting her head against the wall. "How'd you do it? Fight with all these beautiful women all day?"

He sits down on a wooden chair and leans back. "Because when I'm training and sparring, I think of them as _soldiers_. Wouldn't live long if I let my cock do the thinking on the battlefield."

"True," Sera says with a nod. "But you get right up in there. I'm all the way in the back."

"Which is how it should be," Blackwall says at once. "I do my job, no one will ever touch you."

"So you _sparred_ with Cassandra and it didn't affect you at all?"

"Didn't say that," Blackwall admits, thinking back to the spar, to Cassandra straddling him, until he was able to turn it around and pin her down. Remembering the Lady Seeker's hot breath on his neck, he adds, "Let's just say I'll have plenty to think about tonight."

Sera puts her hands over her face and starts giggling louder than he's heard before. "Hee! Wanking."

"That's right, Sera," Blackwall says with a chuckle and a shake of his head.

"You're the best, Beardy," Sera says, laying down in his bed, her eyes closing.

Blackwall tips back in his chair, bringing his feet up to rest on the end of the bed. His voice is soft when he answers, "You're not bad yourself, Fuzzhead."

**III.**

Maker, what he wouldn't give for a shield right now.

Blackwall clutches onto his two handed sword, his eyes searching the field, looking for any of those Red Templar bastards who might sneak up on the people of Haven. He stands at the back of the group, ready to give his life to protect these people. They deserve no less.

Next to him stands Solas, the curve of his spine heavy with defeat. Blackwall's seen the way the elf looked at the Herald back at Haven. He also saw the way the Herald looked back at Solas.

Now the Herald's dead. Along with any chance of closing the remaining Rifts.

And Sera...

Sera's dead, too. He can't imagine anyone making it through the avalanche alive. Blackwall swallows. He should have gone with them. But the Herald seems to prefers fighting with women at her side, and now Sera, Lady Vivienne, and the Lady Seeker are all dead.

Just the thought of never seeing Sera again, never hearing her laugh, or trying to convince him to play pranks, _hurts_. It’s his ribs squeezing together until they might shatter. Blackwall tries to convince himself that the pain is good, it’s better than that awful nothingness he had felt after he stepped away from the bodies of the Callier children. A nothingness that quickly turned into despair.

But here in the Frostback mountains there’s no time for despair. There’s eighty mouths that need shelter and food, and he needs to step up and help.

“I see something,” Solas says quietly, his voice teetering dangerously towards hope.

Blackwall looks at once and his breath hitches. There’s no mistaking the shape of Lady Vivienne’s hat, illuminated by her staff. He moves toward her, strapping his sword on his back, ignoring the cold and the wind, breaking a trail as best he can, and sees Cassandra carrying Sera.

“Sera!” he calls out as loud as he can. Almost a minute passes before they meet up. A minute where he can’t tell if Sera’s breathing or not because of the snow. It’s one of the longest minutes of his life.

And then Cassandra hands Sera to him, who is most certainly breathing and _not dead._

“What hurts?” he asks, trying to figure out just how to hold best Sera in his arms without hurting her more.

“Ankle,” Sera says, and Blackwall can hear a jagged edge of pain in her voice. “Stupid shoes. Always thought most elves daft, not wearing proper ones. Maybe they were on to something.”

Blackwall looks at her feet. What’s she’s wearing can barely be called shoes. Slippers, more like it. “When we’re settled, we’re finding you a good cobbler, Sera and you’re getting a sturdy pair of boots. No arguments this time.”

Instead of the smart response he expects, Sera rests her head against his shoulder. “Not a bad idea, that.”

Vivienne and Cassandra are ahead of them now, but that doesn’t bother Blackwall. He’s sure Cassandra will make sure there’s a healer waiting for Sera. If only Adan hadn’t been lost at Haven…

“Sera,” Blackwall says, urgency in his voice. “What of the Herald? Where is she?”

“Dunno,” Sera says. She sounds flippant and curt, and he’s learned enough about Sera to hear the hairline crack of fear she’s trying to mask. “Separated. No idea where she is.”

“Maker help us,” Blackwall whispers.

“What if…” Sera says, trailing off. He glances down, before concentrating on making his way to the camp, thinking just how _young_ Sera looks. “Herald, yeah? They announce things, right? What if the Herald had to die so Andraste and the Maker can come back?”

Religion is the last thing he wants to think about. Blackwall’s a regular at services, but stays away from the Sisters, eager to hear his sins. And when he prays, it’s never for the lost cause he’s become, but for the lives he’s ruined on the way down.

The thought of Andraste and the Maker returning in his lifetime? It’s too much to take in. And it especially doesn’t solve the problem of how they’re going to keep eighty people warm tonight. This line of thought will have to wait.

“New rule, Sera,” he says. “No religious discussion unless we’re both fucking _pissed._ ”

**IV.**

Blackwall brings his supper to the stables, away from prying eyes. He tells himself he’s not hiding, not really. Surely no one wants him around any longer, not when all of Thedas knows the truth about Thom fucking Rainier.

The ham and turnips are bland, but far better than anything he ate in the Val Royeaux prison. If he sat in the Main Hall for his supper, there were plenty of spices he could add, give his food a bit of flavor. But that would require him to talk to people, and he’s never felt less like talking in his life.

Of all the things he expected from Judgment this morning, him leaving the Main Hall as a free man never crossed his mind. And yet, that’s what he is. A free man. The Inquisitor couldn’t have given him a harsher sentence. Freedom. The very thing Blackwall doesn’t deserve is what he’s been granted.

“Oi.”

The sudden voice jolts him out of his self-pity. Blackwall looks up to see Sera walking towards him, holding two bottles of whiskey. For a moment, he wants to take both those bottles and run. It’s what he did after the massacre, lose himself in drink, hardly caring if he survived one day to the next. It would be so fucking _easy_ to go back down that path, to became a drunkard again.

But the Inquisition deserves Blackwall at his best, not his worst. Drinking himself into a stupor night after night would spit in the face of the Inquisitor’s decision and faith in him. He can’t do that. He won’t.

Sera plops down in front of the fire, looking up expectantly. With a sigh inward, Blackwall places his plate on his workbench and stands up. He’s not a young man anymore and already hates the thought of standing up after he’s sat down on the ground.

Because it’s Sera, he sits down, leaning back against the wall of the stable.

“Glad I never called you Blackwall, right?” Sera says, resting her weight on her hands. “See that’s the thing. You’re Beardy to me.” She looks him in the eye, then, the first person to meet his gaze since he left Skyhold in the middle of the night like a coward. “And that’s not going to change. Ever.”

Before he can respond, Sera tosses him the bottle of whiskey. He catches it with one hand and looks at the label. It’s from The Crown and the Lion, a tavern out east. And instead of the lion jumping majestically over a crown, Sera added some scribbles to make it look like it’s taking a piss instead.

“Sera…” Blackwall takes a deep breath and wonders if he should even try to explain, wonders if he could even find the words. Before he left Skyhold, he thought about confiding in Sera, telling her the truth. A clean break seemed kinder at the time. When he reverses their positions in his head, if it were Sera who left in the middle of the night, and he never heard from her again, he’d be crushed. He’s man enough to admit that.

“Don’t say it, Beardy,” Sera says, and her voice is soft. “Not needed. Not really.”

Blackwall twists the cork out of the bottle of whiskey and takes a long swallow. A few sips, and no more. “It is needed, Sera,” he says after a moment. “I’m sorry for leaving like I did, and I’m sorry for lying.”

“But-”

“Did I say I was finished?” Blackwall asks, not quite seriously. “You’ll always be Fuzzhead to me.”

He holds out his bottle of whiskey and Sera taps her bottle against it. They stare at each other for a breath, maybe two, maybe three, and Blackwall finds himself relaxing. Somehow, facing the rest of Skyhold doesn’t seem too impossible when Sera has his back.

Finishing the toast, Blackwall takes another sip of whiskey, swirling it around his mouth before swallowing. Then without any fanfare, he puts the cork back in and puts the bottle down. His demons won’t win tonight.

“Are we done with the mushy stuff?” Sera asks, turning so she’s laying on her stomach, looking up at him from across the fire.

Blackwall nods. There’s nothing left to say. They have each other. That’s enough. “We are.”

“Good. Now. I want to know all about Orlesian knickers. Spare nothing.” 

**V.**

“You’re being a right old prat, you know that, right?”

Blackwall sighs and puts down his carving. It’s a simple rose, something he can leave for Josephine when the weather becomes too cold to make the trek up the mountain for the flowers he brings her once a week. The petals are taking more work than he expects, but then again, he’s only really had the chance to make simply toys the last few years. The last time he tried to whittle something this complicated, he was a Captain in the Imperial Army.

“What’d I do this time, Sera?” Blackwall asks, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers over his stomach.

“Cute at first,” Sera says, hopping up onto his workbench. “You watching over Josie-”

“Sera, don’t,” Blackwall says, sharper than he intends. This is the last thing he needs right now, not when Lady Vivienne’s words still ring in his ears. _There's no need for you to terrorize and mortify our Ambassador when you're pathetically far beneath her._

“Sorry, got to say it,” Sera says as her cheeks start to redden. “I know you get off on this courtly shite, but maybe…”

Blackwall runs a hand over his face, wondering how in the world to explain the Orlesian tradition of _la splendeur des coeurs perdus_ to Sera. “It’s a game.”

“What?” Sera asks, tilting her head. “Like _The_ Game?”

“Maker, no,” Blackwall says with a shudder. _That_ Game he hopes never to play again. For twenty years he thrived in Orlais, using his Free Marcher background as an advantage, instead of the weakness most Orlesians assumed it would be. Turns out, noble women like a man with a rough accent. Noble women tend to have a great deal of influence over their husbands. And their husbands tended to be the ones to have the final say over who would be promoted, even those husbands without a lick of military experience.

“Then what?”

“It’s like this, Sera. Lady Montilyet has a wonderful future ahead of her. She’ll be the ambassador until her family picks out the right husband for her. Then she’ll have beautiful babies and a happy life,” Blackwall says wistfully, knowing that sort of future, one with a wife and children would never be his. It’s a life he flat out rejected in Orlais, flaunting his freedom, ignoring the letters of minor nobles interested in securing their younger daughters in a marriage with a rising star in the Orlesian Army.

Funny how appealing that future is to him now.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Sera asks.

Blackwall pauses, choosing his words carefully. “I admire Lady Montilyet,” he says slowly. “And she made it clear that she doesn’t mind being admired.”

Sera brings her legs up underneath her as she runs a finger down the griffin rocking horse he’s been working on. That area hasn’t been sanded properly yet, and Blackwall hopes she doesn’t get a splinter. “So she really likes it?”

“There are a dozen ways for her to tell me to stop without any insult to me. She could say her desk is too cluttered for flowers or perhaps I’d enjoy some more fresh air. If she ever indicates she wants me to stop, I’ll stop. No questions asked,” Blackwall says, thinking of the way their fingers lingered together the last time he gave her flowers and how her cheeks reddened as she smelled the bouquet.

“I don’t get it,” Sera says finally.

“Neither do I,” Blackwall admits. “But it gives me a reason to keep going, to know on Saturday mornings, Lady Montilyet would be disappointed if she didn’t have fresh flowers. Maybe she feels bloody sorry for me. Or maybe she just really likes flowers.”

“You and women, Beardy,” Sera says, shaking her head. “Either virgins or whores with you. You had a hard-on for Quizzie, too, back in Haven. Don’t bother denying, I know you.”

He thinks back to Haven, to those few conversations when he wondered if the Herald might actually be flirting with him, before realizing it was nonsense. Now she and Solas are hardly ever separated. A much better match as far as Blackwall’s concerned.

“So while you put these women on a pedestal, you’re fucking Flissa - that’s right, I heard about that.”

“Old news, Fuzzhead,” Blackwall says, thinking of the dozen or so times he and Flissa were together. “She hasn’t spoken to me since the truth about Rainier came out.”

Sera looks offended on his behalf. “Well, fuck her then.”

“That had been the idea,” Blackwall says dryly, before quickly turning serious. Perhaps Sera’s right. Perhaps he needs to stop elevating women in his head, thinking they’re untouchable. Of course, most are, since most wouldn’t ever want to be with a murderer like him. But he’s spent most of his life alone. He’s fairly used to it by now. 

And he does have something he never really had before back in Orlais. He has a friend.

**VI.**

Every single bone in Blackwall’s body _hurts_ \- a deep and weary hurt, a hurt that will taunt him tomorrow - but he’s never been fucking prouder in his life.

Corypheus is dead.

And Blackwall was there. Blackwall stood on that battlefield and faced the magistar down, along with the rest of the Inquisitor’s Inner Circle. Of course, now he’d give his left nut for a nap or a tub of ice, but that will have to wait.

There’s a long walk to the wagons that will take them all back to Skyhold. Too long to keep his chestpiece on, he decides. Rolling his shoulders, Blackwall starts unbuckling the leather straps. As he does, he looks around the group.

The Inquisitor walks in front, her arms wrapped around herself. Blackwall’s surprised Solas isn’t there next to her. Everyone knows things have been strained between the pair, ever since they came back from Crestwood and she no longer wore her _vallaslin._

But today is special. If there’s any day, those two should come together, it’s today.

An Inquisition page takes Blackwall’s chestpiece and sword from him and already he feels better. The further they walk away from The Temple of Sacred Ashes, the bluer the sky becomes. Soon, the sickly green color of the Fade that surrounded the Temple would be a memory.

He hears the sound of solid leather boots running up behind him and braces himself. A moment later, Sera jumps up his back. Even though she weighs almost nothing, Blackwall doesn’t have the heart to set her down only to complain about his aching lower back.

Especially not when she sounds happier than he’s ever heard before. “Heroes, us,” Sera says with a laugh. “Just think, Beardy, we _helped._ ”

This time, it’s Blackwall’s turn to laugh. They did help, they really did. To think that an elf from the slums of Denerim and a Free Marcher commoner managed to help bring down an ancient Magistar from Tevinter of all things…

Blackwall lifts Sera up a bit more, ignoring the protests of his back. He doesn’t run, but he speeds up, Sera’s shout of glee egging him on.

He turns to circle around the group, but not before getting a good look at the Inquisitor’s face. She looks miserable, which doesn’t seem fair when everyone else is the opposite. But it’s not for him to intrude. The inquisitor has friends at Skyhold; they’ll be there for her.

“Where’s droopy-ears?” Sera asks quietly.

Solas is nowhere to be seen. “Maybe he took a different route,” Blackwall says, not even convincing himself. “He’ll show up.”

“Pfft,” Sera says, jumping off of Blackwall’s back. He twists his torso, trying to loosen it up. It doesn’t. Sleeping on a wooden plank tonight, it is. “He will, too. Probably make a grand entrance, talking of elvhen glory.”

“Probably right about that,” Blackwall says, taking Sera’s hand and tucking it in the crook of his arm.

She snorts. “You’re daft,” she says, but Blackwall smiles when she doesn’t take her hand away. “Everything will change now that Pissypants is dead.”

“Already changing,” Blackwall says, thinking of the nights in the tavern. Their duo is slowly becoming a trio, with Dagna joining them more often than not. And one of these days, he’ll be on the outskirts, when the two of them realize they’re in love with each other. It’s just a matter of time.

He’s happy for Sera, he truly is, but selfishly he worries about being left behind. Sera will never push him to the side, he knows this, but things won’t be as before. They never will be again.

Then there’s his own idea of moving forward, just a nugget in his head, at the moment, but something he thinks he’ll need to do soon. It will mean leaving the Inquisition for a time, while Blackwall focuses on personal business. Maybe that will be the nudge Sera needs to admit her feelings for Dagna.

But that’s the future. As they get to the wagons to take them back to Skyhold and all the inevitable changes, Blackwall is content to focus on the here and now.

**VII.**

Well, that could have gone better.

Thom ignores the stares of the people on the street as he limps towards the tavern. Maker, does he ever need a drink right now. A drink, maybe a bath, and an uninterrupted night’s sleep, preferably in that order.

The tavern is mercifully almost empty, save a few dwarven merchants haggling over prices in the corner. And of course, Sera sitting at a table, fletching arrows as she waits.

She looks up then, and her faces scrunches up when she sees him. Before Thom can say anything to stop her, Sera jumps up and jogs over to him. He makes no protest when she slings his arm over her shoulder, helping carry his burden.

“Told you this was daft,” Sera says, and Thom can almost hear her rolling her eyes as she speaks. “Past is past. Work on what’s in front of you.”

Thom gingerly sits on the wooden chair, then elevates his leg on another. No broken bones he thinks, and he’s broken enough in his lifetime to know. But he’ll have a mean shiner in the morning.

“Food’s on it’s way,” Sera says. “Figured you’d be hungry after that.”

“Appreciate it,” Thom says wearily. “But where’s the bloody drink? That’s what I need right now.”

Sera lets out a laugh. “That’s why we’re friends, us,” she says. “Ale or hard stuff?”

“Maker, give me the hard stuff today,” Thom says, wincing in pain as he tries to crack his neck. “Just one, then I’ll switch to ale.”

While Sera heads to the bar, Thom looks out the window. It’s a beautiful day in Jader, the city he’s decided to start in his quest. When he woke this morning, Thom was full of optimism, thinking of the long overdue apologies he would start making to his men.

Three in Jader alone, then on to Val Chevin, and several other Orlesian cities. After that, he’ll go north to the Free Marches. Varric’s last letter said he has several promising leads, thanks to the dwarf’s spy network.

“And here we are,” Sera says, setting a shot of what looked to be whiskey and a pint of ale in front of him.

Blackwall doesn’t hesitate, picking up the whiskey and throwing it back in one smooth motion. “Better than a poultice,” he mutters.

“Oi, that’s right,” Sera says as she sits down. She rummages through her pack. “Have one of those, too. Your eye might need it.”

She hands him the poultice, which Thom puts on his eye. “Thanks.”

“You get a word in? Or they beat you up right away?” Sera asks, resting her chin on her hand.

“Soon as I introduced myself,” Thom says. He’s trying so hard to accept his past, to think of himself as Thom Rainier again instead of Blackwall. Thanks to this first attempt going so poorly, Thom’s ready to ride back to Skyhold and forget the whole thing.

But that’s not an option. His men deserve an apology and the right to accept it or not.

The food arrives, then, and Thom’s stomach starts to grumble. Perhaps he’s not as beat up as he thinks, not when he suddenly feels like he could eat everything in the tavern.

Both he and Sera take food seriously, so the meal is mostly quiet as they settle down and tuck in. Thanks to the food, alcohol, and the poultice, Thom almost feels like himself again when they’ve finished eating. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

“Even Beardy’s got to eat,” she says with a shrug.

“Not just for the food, Fuzzhead. For being here for this,” Thom says, leaning back in his chair. He’s almost ready to undo his belt a notch thanks to the food. It was a _very_ good meal. “Getting this first one done… I’ll be able to find the strength to do the others.”

Sera waves her hand away. “Made sense, yeah? Best place there is to wait while Widdle is being all dwarfy underground. Miss my Widdle.”

Thom nods, wondering how Dagna’s doing down in Orzammar. Now that she’s accomplished so much with the Inquisition, apparently the Orzammar nobles don’t mind her coming and going. Dagna understandably took the chance to see her father as soon as possible. Sera wanted to come with, but Orzammar’s generosity ended there.

“Well, all the same, Sera, thank you.” Thom picks up his ale and takes a sip. Tomorrow would probably be more of the same, offering an apology where it’s most likely not wanted. That won’t stop him. He’ll keep working and keep offering until he’s found them all.

But even with all the tomorrows looming over him, Thom decides he’s allowed to at least enjoy right now.

**VIII.**

“I don’t like this,” Sera says, leaning against her bow. “Don’t like this at all.”

Thom grunts in agreement. It’s been an exhausting few years, fighting in Tevinter on two fronts: the qunari and Solas’ army. To think there’s actually peace with the qunari now, thanks to them realizing that Solas is the true threat.

The armies have spent days battling in the Frostback Mountains, making their way up to Skyhold, which Solas took back for himself after the Inquisition disbanded. 

Sera sits on one of the long wooden tables in the Main Hall, an arrow nocked. While she might look relaxed, Thom knows better. He doesn’t bother with a facade, instead keeping his weight on the balls of his feet, his shield out and sword ready.

Outside the Main Hall, the fighting has stopped, though no doubt could start up again at a moment’s notice.

“This is taking too long,” Thom mutters.

The Inquisitor insisted on speaking to Solas alone, and she’s in there now, in the rotunda where Solas spent most of his time when they lived at Skyhold.

“What if he kills her?” Sera asks.

Thom looks at the others gathered in the Main Hall: Hawke, the Arishok, King Alistair, the Hero of Ferelden, almost all of the Inquisitor’s Inner Circle, and even the unassuming Tevinter spy who helped set all of this in motion.

“If he does, he won’t get far,” Thom vows.

The door to the rotunda opens and Thom recognizes the heavy armored footsteps of the Inquisitor. She doesn’t come out into the hall, and quickly motions to him and Sera.

“Quizzie?” Sera asks softly as they follow her into the rotunda.

There are tear marks running down the Inquisitor’s face and her eyes are red and puffy. “Close the door behind you, please.”

Thom’s not sure what to expect, but seeing Solas lying down on the sofa, eyes closed, as if in a deep sleep, is certainly not it.

“He dead?” Sera asks.

“Solas agreed to go back to sleep, to give us a chance to fix things on our own,” the Inquisitor says. “He had everything ready for the ritual. I think this was his plan once we made it through the mountains.”

“So he wakes up in a thousand years, and if he doesn’t like what he sees, tries again?” Thom asks, anger bubbling up inside his chest. No one, not even the Maker, should have that sort of power. People should be able to make their own choices, and deal with the consequences.

“Exactly,” the Inquisitor says, and her eyes start tearing up. “Which is why we need to kill him. Now. Before any of his army realizes what happened.” She sounds like she’s about to break and Thom places his hand on her shoulder, trying to remind her that she’s not alone. “I can’t do it, I still love him so much, even after all of this…”

Thom takes a breath and reminds himself that this is war. He’s killed plenty of others over the past few days. Solas would kill them all in an instant if he thought it would bring his world back.

He draws his sword.

“Beardy, wait,” Sera says, and he hears a slight tremble in her voice. “I’ll do it.”

“Sera-”

“Needs to be an elf,” Sera says, taking a breath and straightening her shoulders. “Don’t want anything he could give me, yeah? Magic is bollocks. But all this, he did for us, the elves. Never wanted to be one, really. But I am, no matter how hard I try not to be. Done running from it, I am. I’ll kill him.”

A few seconds later, it’s over, an arrow in Solas’s heart.

The Inquisitor’s not willing to risk a burial, so they wait until the cover of night, then bring the body up to the ramparts for cremation. In Solas’ effects, they find an oak staff, a cedar branch, and a seed for a vhenadahl tree, items used in traditional Dalish burials. Thom wonders if Solas expected the Inquisitor to kill him, or if he intended to use them for her.

In the end, it doesn’t matter, and the Inquisitor burns the items along with the dead.

“I’ve really nothing now,” the Inquisitor says softly once the body is nothing more than a pile of ash. “My clan is dead. The Inquisition is over. Solas is dead.”

Thom remembers that feeling, that feeling hitting the ground, and getting up seems impossible. He’ll do what he can to keep her from that same fate. “You’re not alone, Inquisitor,” Thom says.

“Beardy’s right, Quizzie,” Sera says. “You’ve got us. And you’re still a Jenny, don’t forget that.”

The Inquisitor lets out a bark of a laugh. “Hard to forget that,” she says, and Thom’s pleased to see a hint of a smile on her face.

“Come on,” Sera says, swinging her arm around the Inquisitor’s shoulder. Thom meets Sera’s gaze then, and the three of them start to walk, the Inquisitor in the middle.

And in the distance, the mountain wolves start to howl.

**IX.**

“I’m so nervous, Beardy,” Sera says as she flaps her hands at her side while pacing the stone floor.

Thom crosses his arms over his chest and watches Sera. “You’ll wear out the floor, Sera,” he says with a chuckle. “You do realize people get married every day.”

“Not to Widdle, they don’t,” Sera says, biting her lower lip. “Everything needs to be perfect for Widdle.”

“It will be, Sera,” Thom says softly. “You’ll see.”

Hard to believe the woman standing in front of him in a backroom of a church in Jader is the same one he met more than seven year ago now. She’s softer now, no more knobbly wrists and knees. Her hair’s grown out, enough to wear it up to show off the flower crown she made this morning.

Her dressing habits haven’t changed much, that’s a comfort. Her white dress is more like a tunic, ending at her knees, giving way to the main attraction, a pair of bright red leggings. And boots. A pair of sturdy boots.

“Keep waiting for something to go wrong, yeah? More qunari or dragons or pissypants coming back from the dead. My kind don’t seem to want to actually stay dead,” Sera says with a brittle laugh.

Thom stands up and places his hands on both of Sera’s shoulders. “If any of that happens, we’ll deal with it. You really think I’m not going to be armed at your wedding?”

Sera jumps up and gives him a hug, then, wrapping both arms tightly around his neck. Thom hugs her back just as tightly. “And that’s why you’re the best, Beardy.” She steps back and takes a deep breath. “Your girl here?”

He nods, and thinks of Ann. They met the last time he went to Denerim, to work with recently released prisoners. One of the ex-prisoners desperately needed new clothes, and he went to her shop, where she sells the cloth she weaves. He and Ann became close, and she never flinched once when he told her his whole sordid history.

Thom will never have a child of his own, but if things go the way he thinks they will with Ann, he’ll become part of her family. She’s a widow only a few years younger than him, with children ready to become parents themselves. So while he won’t ever hear someone call him father, there will be children who consider him to be a grandfather, and he can’t think of a greater joy than that.

A chime rings, and Thom steps back. “I better get up to the front,” he says. Sera asked him to be her witness months ago, and he’s taking the job very seriously. Two nights ago, they had an evening out he won’t ever forget and he convinced there still might be some alcohol in his blood.

“Beardy, wait,” Sera says. “I want to do something else.”

“Fuzzhead, you’re getting married in five minutes,” Thom says.

“Widdle’s father’s here, right? Can’t believe he actually came up from the rock, but he did. He’s going to walk her down the aisle,” Sera says quietly. “I thought… I thought you could walk me.”

If Thom thought he understood happiness before, he was wrong. _This_ is happiness. Friends and family. If he could go back in time and tell that frightened boy from Markham one thing, it would be that. Gold is nothing compared to _this._

“I’d be honored,” Thom says with a catch in his throat.

“Make me cry and you’ll take an arrow to the knee, Beardy,” Sera warns, even as her own eyes are bright.

The chime rings again. “Are you ready?” he asks, and he can’t help but puff out his chest a bit in pride as he offers Sera his arm.

Her fingers grip his arm rightly as she takes a deep breath. “Time to become a wife.” They take a step and she stops. “You’re really armed?”

Thom nods. “Dagger in my boot and at my belt. Nothing’s stopping this wedding.”

“Right, then,” Sera says, and Thom sees a flicker of determination in her eyes, the same look when she’s ready to best a noble or pull a prank, a look that means she’s getting away with something. “Luckiest prat in the world, I am. Widdle’s waitng.”

**X.**

Funny how fifty years can pass in a moment’s time.

Almost fifty years passed since Thom stepped on this field to fight in the Grand Melee. He was a completely different man, then. A man with so much to learn about life.

And here he is again, but instead of fighting, he’s a spectator. Thom’s a man who would get lost in the crowd now. White hair and beard, wizened hands, a limp. No one would look at him and ever believe he once won the Grand Melee. Doesn’t bother him at all for he has nothing more to prove.

“Do you see him in there?” Sera asks, tugging at his arm. “Where’s my boy?”

“There,” Dagna says, pointing to a small group in the field. “I see the rune I made for his sword.”

“Ha!” Sera says, clapping her hands together. “Knew he’d listen to you, Beardy, he’s making an alliance.”

Thom’s eyesight isn’t nearly as good as it used to be, so it takes a bit longer for him to find the lad. But there he stands, looking proud and fierce in his armor. Sera and Dagna’s son.

Less than a year after the two wed, Sera told him that Dagna was going to have a baby. Thom never asked about the how or when or the million other questions he had. All that mattered to him was the idea of becoming a mother filled Sera with absolute joy.

Sera and Dagna named their child Gordon, in honor of Warden Blackwall, and Thom did his best to instill the best virtues of the Grey Wardens in the young dwarf. And if Gordon wins today, there’s no doubt in Thom’s mind that the lad will stay grounded and sensible, and not waste the opportunity and gold. Too many people love and care for him to let him go astray.

The only thing that would make today better is if Ann was by his side, but his wife prefers not to travel. So Thom came up from Denerim to see Gordon fight, and to spend time with Sera. No matter where he is, if she’s not there, he misses her.

The announcer cries that it’s almost time. Thom stands, then, not wanting to miss a minute of the fighting. Sera slips her arm through his, giving his bicep a squeeze. “We were his age, once,” she says, looking up with a smile on her face.

“Hard to believe sometimes,” Thom says, thinking of the pain in his joints and how hard he tries to ignore it all.

“Don’t care how old you are,” Sera says, “you’ll always be Beardy to me.”

“And you’re Fuzzhead,” Thom says. “Always.”

The bell rings, and Thom and Sera turn their attention to the future.


End file.
